


burn in the fire (watch me bid you goodbye)

by shineyma



Series: in the morning [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s01e20 Nothing Personal, F/M, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-26 08:55:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7568020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jemma's terribly frightened the decision to stay behind will be one that haunts her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	burn in the fire (watch me bid you goodbye)

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my GOSH, you guys. *clings to completed fic* I have been working on this for SO FREAKING LONG, you have no idea. And on top of that, it has been SO LONG since I wrote anything. Literally the last thing I posted was the last thing I wrote; I haven't managed more than MAYBE two hundred words in the last two weeks. It has been TERRIBLE.
> 
> But now I am victorious! Yay!
> 
> This takes place in the same verse as [in the morning (you'll just hate yourself)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3519587/chapters/7739840), but as it occurs before that fic, you shouldn't need to read that to understand this.
> 
> And that's it! Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

The cheery music piping through the diner’s speakers is driving Jemma insane.

All she can think about is Fitz and his annoyed sigh when they parted ways, his impatient _I’ll be_ fine _, Simmons_ and the way he scowled when Trip promised to keep an eye on him. She felt awful, then, torn between staying back to keep an eye on Grant’s injuries and going along to back the others up against Daniels—but in the end, actual training aside, she’s much more qualified to serve as a medic than to face off against a Gifted individual.

She regrets that decision, now. She’s terribly frightened it will be one that haunts her.

At least she’s not alone in her misery. Skye is snappish and jittery, at turns determinedly still and fidgeting like mad, in a way that Jemma has never seen from her before. She offers a smile, and Skye’s attempt to return it is such a miserable failure that Jemma resolves not to try again.

And while Grant’s posture is relaxed enough—leaning back in his seat, legs stretched out under the table, one arm slung casually around her shoulders—she can feel the tension in him. When the second police car in as many minutes drives by, he tenses even further, fingers digging painfully into her arm. She taps him lightly on the thigh and he loosens his hold at once, kissing an apology to her temple.

“We’re in public, guys; keep it PG,” Skye says. Her voice is much more biting than is typical for the running joke, and Jemma leans forward, concerned.

“Skye?” she asks. “Is everything all right?”

“Sorry.” She fists and relaxes her hands over the keyboard of her laptop. “Just a little…on edge.”

“Perfectly understandable,” Jemma assures her, sitting back. “We’re all on edge.” She’s feeling a touch jittery, herself; she doesn’t even realize that she’s worrying at a hangnail until Grant gently tugs her hand away from her mouth. “But everything is going to be fine. The others—the others will be fine. Right?”

“Right,” Grant agrees. “And the sooner we get this hard drive decrypted…”

“The sooner we can get to them,” Skye completes. “I know. I’m working on it.”

“Work faster,” he orders, and Jemma frowns at him.

“Grant!”

“Sorry,” he says at once. He rubs at an eyebrow with his free hand, then aims an apologetic grimace at Skye. “Sorry, I know you’re doing your best.” He takes a glance at the counter, and his arm tightens around Jemma’s shoulders once more. “Just…those cops over there keep looking at us.”

“They’re just checking us out,” Skye tells him. “They’re wondering how a loser like you landed a couple of hot babes like me and Jemma.”

The delivery of the joke is a bit off—a touch too sharp, a moment too late—but it’s a decent attempt at lightening the mood, and Jemma grabs onto it with both hands.

“Or they want Grant for themselves,” she offers. “Perhaps they’re plotting to steal him away from me.”

“Never happen,” he says, and Jemma smiles as he kisses her temple again. It turns to a frown as she feels him tense, and she follows his gaze to see yet another police car drive by.

She’s beginning to become a bit concerned herself about how frequently they’re passing, but before she can ask Grant whether it’s something they should worry about, Skye speaks.

“Do you worry about that?” she asks.

Jemma…has no idea what she’s asking. “About what?”

“About someone stealing your husband away,” Skye clarifies. “He spent a lot of time away before the team, right? And all the undercover work he does…he could lie to your face and you’d never even know it.”

It’s so unexpected a turn in the conversation that, for a moment, Jemma can’t think of a single thing to say. Grant is very still beside her; the topic of his work has always been a sensitive one for him, and though this isn’t actually the first time anyone’s ever asked whether she worries about him using his skills against her, it’s certainly the first time she’s been asked right in _front_ of him.

“Sorry,” Skye adds while Jemma is still trying to gather her thoughts. “I’ve just…always wondered about it.”

“Well, it—it was a concern, of course,” Jemma says, perhaps more honestly than she would have were she not caught so off-guard, “back when we first started dating. Fitz, as you might imagine, had quite a bit to say along those lines. But I trust Grant. I wouldn’t have married him if I didn’t.”

“Right.” Skye smiles weakly, possibly realizing just how offensive her question might be. Or perhaps not, as her next question is, “What about you, Ward? You ever worry about Jemma?”

Grant doesn’t answer; he’s once again distracted by the police officers, and for good reason.

“They’re starting to clear people out,” he says, removing his arm from Jemma’s shoulders. “We should go.”

“No,” Skye says, resuming her typing. “I think I’m good here.”

“ _Skye_ ,” Jemma hisses. “I know you want to get the hard drive decrypted, but I think perhaps—”

“We’ve been made,” Grant says over her, impatiently. “Come _on_.”

“No,” Skye says, spinning the laptop to face them. “ _You’ve_ been made.”

Jemma stares at the screen, uncomprehending. It’s some form of wanted notice for Grant, and as the picture was clearly taken by Skye’s webcam, she must have been the one to make it out.

“I don’t understand,” she says. “Why…?”

“I tipped them off,” Skye says, spitefully, to Grant. “Hail HYDRA.”

Then there are guns on them, a whole bevy of police offers ordering them out of the booth.

Jemma can’t breathe.

Does this mean—? Is Skye—?

But it’s worse even than that, as Grant’s reaction proves handily.

“Sorry, Jem,” he says as he stands, eyes on the guns aimed at him. “I would’ve told you eventually.”

She’s numb as she slides out of the booth. For once in her life, her mind is entirely blank. She can’t—she can’t—

 _He’s_ HYDRA?

The roaring in her ears drowns out the orders the police officers are giving them; Grant and Skye are turning to face the windows, hands raised, and she follows suit automatically. The world is moving too quickly—or perhaps she too slow—because she can’t track what happens next.

Grant is fighting, knocking out (crossing off?) the officers, and Skye is grabbing Jemma’s hand and dragging her out of the diner at a run. She hears Grant yell her name, feels Skye squeeze her fingers, and then time skips or stops or she faints on her feet or _something_ , because the next thing she knows, they’re in the front seat of a police car, speeding away from the diner.

“What,” she says. Her breath is short in her chest; speaking is a struggle, and in any case, she has no idea what to say. “What—Skye—?”

“You didn’t know,” Skye says, more to herself than to Jemma. “I’m really sorry, but it’s also _such_ a relief, you have no ide—”

She stops midsentence in favor of slamming on the breaks as Mike Peterson lands on the hood of the car. Jemma screams, she thinks—she knows Skye does—as Mike punches right through the windshield and wraps his hand around Skye’s neck.

Jemma moves without thought—what can she hope to accomplish against a super soldier?—and Mike’s other fist comes up to aim at her. He doesn’t make any move to hit her (there’s no way he could, not without letting go of Skye), but he doesn’t need to; Jemma’s seen the reports, and she knows there’s a weapon mounted on his wrist—some kind of projectile launcher that nearly killed Grant in Florida.

Getting herself blown up won’t help Skye, and so she’s forced to just sit there and _watch_ as Skye chokes, clawing helplessly at the hand around her throat. The only mercy is that it’s quick; it seems to be no time at all before Skye goes limp, and when Mike lets go, she slumps forward against the steering wheel.

Only then, as she moves to check Skye’s pulse—strong, thank god—does Mike look at Jemma, and his deliberately blank face is enough to bring tears to her eyes.

“Unlock the doors,” he orders flatly.

She thinks about refusing, but only for a moment; a lock offers little protection from a man who can simply rip the door off. Numbly, she obeys, and no sooner do the locks _click_ than Grant is opening her door and offering his hand.

And what can she do but accept it?

As soon as she’s on her feet, he drops her hand in favor of gripping her by the shoulders as he scans her quickly.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “Are you hurt?”

The answer to both questions is, in short, _no_ , but she can’t seem to form the word. She shakes her head.

“Good,” Grant says, and glares over her head—presumably at Mike. “What the fuck were you thinking, jumping onto the hood like that while they were driving? They could have been killed, you jackass.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have let them get in the car,” is Mike’s emotionless response, and his deadened voice—such contrast to the earnest enthusiasm she remembers—is enough to make her shiver.

Grant has afforded her no space at all—there’s barely an inch between them and no way to increase the distance without ducking back into the car—so of course he feels it. It draws his attention back to her, and he frowns, eyes searching her face.

Then he looks back to Mike. “You made a hell of a scene,” he says. “We need to get off the street.”

Mike says nothing.

“Escort Jemma to the SUV,” Grant orders. “ _Nicely_. I’ve got Skye.”

He squeezes Jemma’s shoulders once and then walks away, rounding the back of the police car as Mike approaches from the front of it.

“This way,” he says, walking right past her, and she sees no other option than to follow.

There are dozens of things she could—should—say to him. Questions about what happened to him after his supposed death, whether it was luck or design that saw him in a position to intercept her and Skye, apologies for her husband’s—her _husband’s_ —apparent complicity in his obvious suffering…

But still, words are somehow beyond her, and so they walk in silence.

Walking itself is an unexpected challenge. Her legs are oddly stiff; she feels as though she might fall at any moment, like her knees are only waiting to give out.

Stiff might be the wrong word. Perhaps _brittle_ would be better—yes, brittle and ready to shatter.

And that’s more than just her legs. She’s experiencing a curious sense of distant fragility; as she stumbles along behind Mike, it seems she’s only waiting for the final blow before she falls apart—and yet, at the same time, it’s as though she’s not here at all.

She believes she’s in shock.

When they reach the SUV—still safely tucked away on the side street where Grant parked it before they walked to the diner, an hour or a decade ago—Mike opens the back door for her, and she obediently climbs in. He takes the driver’s seat, right in front of her, and surely this is the moment she should say something.

She doesn’t, and the silence stretches out.

It’s broken when Grant opens the front passenger side door, and Jemma’s heart skips a beat at the sight of Skye’s limp form in his arms. If not for the slight rise and fall of her chest, Jemma would think her dead.

For the moment, though, they’re both alive.

After depositing Skye in the front seat, Grant slides into the back of the SUV to sit next to Jemma.

“You’re shaking,” he says, concerned, and wraps his arm around her shoulder to pull her close. “C’mere, baby.”

It’s absurd to accept comfort from him when he’s the reason she’s so distraught in the first place, but accept it she does. Shock has chilled her to the bone, and his embrace is warm and familiar—she simply can’t bring herself to shove him away, no matter that she should.

His touch does nothing for the way her numbness has blanked her mind, however; when she tries to accuse him, to demand answers, all she can manage is a helpless,

“You’re—really?”

He sighs. “Yeah.”

The confirmation doesn’t help. She wants to ask why—ask _when_ —but the words simply won’t come.

“Sorry,” he adds, though he certainly doesn’t sound it, as Mike pulls the car away from the curb. “This really isn’t how I wanted you to find out.”

Staring at the back of Mike’s head reminds her of the mission in Florida and what Skye saw underneath his skin. Hope sparks in her chest.

“Do you have a kill switch?” she asks. “Are they threatening—”

“No,” Grant interrupts. His voice is sharp enough to hurt as it lances through her hope, and he must realize that, because it’s gentler when he continues, “Everything I’ve done was of my own free will, Jemma.”

She inhales slowly, attempting to fight her rising nausea. “So you’re truly loyal to HYDRA.”

“Well, no,” he says. “I’m loyal to _John_ , and he needed HYDRA. It’s more about practicality than loyalty.”

There’s something chilling about that defense—that he even _thinks_ it’s a defense, that he believes working for an organization like HYDRA is made any better by only doing it for his own ends—but she can’t address it. She’s distracted by a sudden realization, the logical conclusion to be drawn from Grant’s declaration.

Her mind is turning now, but still very slowly. It’s her only excuse for how long it’s taken her to put this together.

“John’s not dead,” she says. “Is he.”

Mike makes an ugly noise. She doesn’t want to think about that—about the fact that all of the terrible things she imagines he’s suffered came at the hands of a man who danced with her at her wedding.

She’s mourned John, a little, since Grant claimed to have killed him. Even knowing he was the enemy, the cruel villain they’ve been chasing for months—she still mourned him.

John has done awful, unforgiveable things: human experimentation, kidnapping, and torture, to name only a few. But he’s family and has been for years, so Jemma will forgive herself her reflexive relief when Grant shakes his head.

“Not dead,” he says. “ _Dying_.”

She frowns. “I don’t understand.”

“You remember how SHIELD abandoned me—and Fitz—in South Ossetia?” he asks.

His tone dares her to dispute the use of the word _abandoned_ , but she doesn’t. It’s how she’s always thought of it, when she’s allowed herself to think of that horrible day at all.

So she simply nods.

“They did the same thing to John,” he says, “twenty-five years ago. Only he didn’t have a team to come for him. He had to drag himself out of Sarajevo on his own, and he barely made it.” His free hand comes up to cup her cheek, turning her face towards his and breaking her staring match with the back of Mike’s seat. Grant’s eyes are dark with anger. “The Deathlok program originated with him—experimenting with biomechanics to save his life.”

Jemma has to swallow past the sudden tightness in her throat before she can speak.

“That doesn’t excuse what he’s done,” she says. “What _you’ve_ done.”

“We’re trying to save his _life_ ,” he stresses. “Cybertek’s kept him alive for twenty-five years, but the fix is starting to fail. The GH-325 could _save_ him, Jemma.”

Before she can respond to that—before she can figure out where to even _begin_ —the SUV bumps as Mike drives it up the Bus’ ramp.

“We’re here,” he says unnecessarily. There’s a bite to his voice, a leashed resentment that once again reminds her of everything he’s endured.

She doesn’t want John dead, but the things he’s done don’t suddenly become permissible just because his motives are understandable. Dozens, if not hundreds, of innocent people have suffered at his hands. She can’t forget that.

“Yeah, I can see that,” Grant says. He removes his arm from her shoulders, leaving her cold, and pats her thigh twice. “Come on.”

There’s something brewing in her, a spiteful anger building under her shock and horror, and it urges her to refuse. To stop going quietly along—to _rebel_. Cooperation without resistance, it says, is the same as collusion.

But resisting would be pointless here, with her only ally—and oh, that’s a thought that hurts as soon as she has it; if Skye is her only ally, that leaves Grant her enemy, and how can that _be_?—unconscious. She can’t overpower Grant, let alone Mike, and it would be foolish to try. Especially over something as simple as getting out of the car.

So she slides out of the SUV and stands back as Grant gets it locked into place and Mike drops Skye to the floor under the jump seats. She makes no last-minute dash for freedom—for surely she’s a prisoner, even if it’s not been said—as the cargo ramp rises slowly.

The anger gets its way surprisingly quickly, however; when Grant attempts to lead her upstairs, she jerks away before she’s even aware she intends to.

Grant gives her a puzzled smile. “Something wrong?”

There are a _million_ things wrong, not least the fact that her husband is _HYDRA_.

“What am I doing?” she asks.

His eyes move from her to the stairs and back again.

“…Going upstairs?” he tries.

“ _Here_ ,” she snaps, angry even though she knows it’s her own fault for speaking so vaguely. “What am I doing here?” There’s…something. Understanding just out of reach, waiting for her epiphany; she knows it’s there, but her brain is still sluggish, rebooting from the shock she’s had today. All she can do is ask the question that springs to her lips and then follow the answer to its conclusion. “Why did you keep me from going to Portland?”

She was so _worried_ when he asked her to stay; he’s always been so reluctant to admit to weakness, to acknowledge physical pain, and so for him to pull her aside and say that he was _hurting_ , more than cracked ribs would account for, that he thought there was something wrong—

Panic settled itself under her skin, and she told Coulson she was staying, and that was that.

But though there’s a blank spot, still, between leaving the diner and being in the police car with Skye, she remembers clearly the easy way Grant took down those police officers. And here and now, there’s no sign of pain—none of the tight lines she’s been seeing in his face since his return from…

From the Fridge.

“What do you mean, why?” she hears Grant ask as though from a great distance. “I need a reason not to want my wife to face down a superpowered _psychopath_?”

Skye is still unconscious, lying on the floor. Mike is standing to the side, a silent and unwilling witness. Jemma’s very aware of them suddenly, though she couldn’t say why.

“You let him out,” she says, forcing the words past the tightness in her throat. Her newest realization has lodged there and refuses to be moved. “HYDRA took the Fridge, and you’re HYDRA, so—you’re the reason Daniels is free.”

Grant’s eyes narrow; he’s aware, clearly, that she’s leading up to something, but can’t quite follow her train of thought.

Jemma can barely follow it herself.

“We let all of them out,” he offers after a moment. “But yeah. If that’s the way you wanna look at it.”

“Why?” she asks, because motive is important. “He obviously wasn’t interested in serving HYDRA, as he went straight to Portland, so why…?”

“To distract Coulson,” he says—easily, carelessly. “We needed a way to get him out of Providence, and that was the quickest one.”

“Because of Audrey,” she says.

“Yeah.”

“You put an innocent woman’s life at risk,” she says, “solely for the sake of distracting Coulson.”

At this, Grant hesitates, but she’s only restating what he’s already said, and he can’t deny it now. He nods.

She lets that sit for a moment, lets the truth of Audrey’s predicament—a predicament she did nothing to deserve, a danger she never should have faced—linger in the air between them.

She wonders if Grant is moved by it at all.

“Why did you want Coulson out of Providence?” she asks, once she can bear to.

“Just to keep him out of the way,” Grant says, and it occurs to her, suddenly, to question if she should be concerned by how easily he’s answering her questions. “I didn’t know how things were gonna go down, and I couldn’t afford to risk him fucking it up.”

Jemma inhales slowly. Exhaustion is tugging at her, the weight of worry and betrayal and, still, a hopeless kind of disbelief taking its toll. She’s honestly tempted to lie down right here in the cargo bay and sleep.

But she’s sheltered in ignorance long enough—and there’s still an epiphany to be had. She can feel it drawing closer.

“So that brings us back to the beginning,” she says. “Why am I here? Precisely what do you _want_? What _things_ did you want Coulson gone for?”

“You’re here because you’re my _wife_ ,” Grant says, with none of the affection that usually accompanies the word. In fact, there’s something dark in his tone, something that makes her quail without truly knowing why, and she takes a step back before she can stop herself. “Like hell was I gonna leave you to SHIELD.”

Thrown by his tone—by his expression and the coldness in his eyes—she has no idea what to say. Perhaps it’s just as well; after a second, a pleasant mask (and it must be a mask) settles over his features, and he continues,

“And I needed Coulson gone so I could get the hard drive unlocked.” He casts an annoyed glare at Skye. “I wasn’t expecting to need a field trip.”

At that, something clicks into place. Jemma feels like the stupidest person alive.

“The others,” she says, only to be surprised by the hoarseness of her voice. “They aren’t in danger, are they?”

Grant’s expression is sympathetic, which makes things approximately one hundred times worse. “No.”

She takes a moment to breathe through that—through the fact that her worry was pointless and unnecessary, that the fretting she’s done over her team, the fretting that made it impossible to sit still in the diner, was for nothing—and in that moment, something else clicks.

She thinks of Skye, when she and Grant came to tell her about the danger to their team, the need to leave as quickly as possible—thinks of how quiet she was, how she kept touching Jemma, a hand on her shoulder, twining their fingers for a moment, knocking their elbows together as they walked through the base.

There was panic in Skye, then, which Jemma attributed to their team’s dire straits.

But Skye knew it wasn’t true—was confident enough that it was a lie to spend their time in the diner putting out a false wanted notice for Grant instead of decrypting the hard drive.

Somehow, Skye knew before they left Providence that Grant was HYDRA. Something that, for some reason, she chose not to confront him about—and not to share with Jemma.

And from that thought blooms Jemma’s epiphany. It comes in the form of a question she should have asked hours ago, but which never occurred to her in her thoughtless trust of the man she loves.

“What,” she asks, and then has to start again when her voice breaks. “What happened to Agent Koenig?”

She didn’t question his absence at their departure before. Thinking of the strain in Skye’s face and her overly tactile behavior, she’s terribly certain now that she should have.

Grant’s expression bears that up.

“I killed him,” he says eventually, after a long pause.

Jemma has no more questions.

She turns on her heel and starts across the cargo bay, only to be halted by Grant seizing her elbow.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he demands.

She jerks her arm away. “I’m going to check on Skye.”

He catches her elbow again, gentler this time, and softens his voice.

“You look tired, Jem,” he says. “Why don’t you come upstairs with me and take a nap?” His thumb rubs circles into her skin, like it has a million times before. She wishes she could claim it was any less pleasant than it’s always been. “I bet you’ve barely slept since the Hub.”

He’s right.

“Skye was choked into unconsciousness,” she says, pulling away from him once more. “There’s no telling what kind of harm that did. I’m not going anywhere until she’s awake.”

This time, he doesn’t stop her when she walks away.

She sits on the floor next to Skye, lifting her slightly so she can settle her head in her lap. Grant’s eyes are on her, she knows—there’s always been a weight to his gaze, a _presence_ that drifts over her skin like a physical touch—but she keeps her attention focused determinedly on Skye.

After a long minute, Grant’s gaze lifts away, and an argument starts up between he and Mike in short order. She ignores it, concentrating on running her fingers through Skye’s hair—more for her own comfort than Skye’s, if she’s honest—and keeping her breathing steady.

She has no idea how long it is before Skye stirs, but when she blinks up at her, something unlocks in her chest, and suddenly, it’s almost impossible to hold back tears.

“So,” Skye says. “I guess the escape plan failed.”

“I’m afraid so,” Jemma says, as evenly as she can.

“Bummer.”

As Skye pushes herself up to sit, Jemma’s hand falls away from her hair. She’s left feeling oddly bereft, but only for as long as it takes for Skye to find her hand and tangle their fingers.

“Did he hurt you?” Skye asks, voice low and urgent, but Grant is there before Jemma gets the chance to answer.

“Okay,” he says, plainly impatient. “Skye’s awake. Let’s go.”

“Go where?” Skye demands at once, fingers tightening around Jemma’s.

“Upstairs,” Jemma tells her. “I—”

“You wanted to stay with Skye until she was conscious, and she is,” Grant interrupts. “So now we’re going upstairs.”

His mood is impossible to pin down. From offering comfort and excuses in the SUV to plainly answering her questions to shouting at Mike to now snapping at her—she can’t keep up. She doesn’t know what’s real and what’s pretense.

Her husband is HYDRA—is a _traitor_. Does she know anything at all?

“Why?” she asks, even as Skye snaps, “Like hell.”

“ _Now,_ Jemma,” Grant orders.

He’s never used that tone with her before. She finds it infuriates her.

“No,” she says, squeezing Skye’s hand for courage. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Grant’s face darkens.

“Don’t make me move you,” he warns, and there’s something in his eyes—

She doesn’t think it’s a threat. But is that because it’s _not_ a threat, or because she simply doesn’t want to believe that the man she loves is capable of even _implying_ he’ll harm her?

Her fury and courage melt away like they never were. Perhaps it makes her a coward, but she’d really rather not know for certain. With one last squeeze to Skye’s hand, she untangles their fingers.

“No,” Skye starts, voice desperate—she sees it for the surrender it is—but even as she clutches at Jemma’s wrist, a single look from Grant has Mike moving in. He yanks Skye to her feet and pulls her away—not far, just far enough to put Jemma out of her reach.

“I’ll deal with _you_ in a minute,” Grant tells Skye, and there is most _certainly_ a threat there.

“Grant,” Jemma says, and he turns to her, face barely softening.

“Get up.”

There’s such force behind it that she’s scrambling to her feet before it even really sinks in, before she has the chance to be angry that he’s taken that tone with her again—though she is, when it does, and even angrier for the moment that she wasn’t angry.

She’s afraid, and angry about that, too. Afraid for Skye, afraid _of_ Grant—afraid she has _reason_ to fear Grant.

Her emotions are a tempestuous ocean right now, and all she can do is try to keep her head above the water. The last time she was in such a position, she had Grant to hold her up, but this time she can’t lean on him at all—in a literal _or_ emotional sense.

“Now,” Grant says, voice full of a very deliberate patience, “you and I are going upstairs.” His eyes are cold, containing not a drop of the—false?—concern she saw earlier when he suggested she get some rest. “And then you’re gonna _stay_ there while I come back down here to deal with our little traitor.”

The look he turns on Skye is enough to frighten _her_ into silence, at least for a moment. But without his intimidation muddying the waters, there’s nothing to keep Jemma’s fury from sparking at that word.

“ _Traitor_?” she echoes derisively, and Grant’s eyes snap back to her. “That’s rich, coming from _you_.”

He scowls. “She nearly got us arrested—”

“You nearly got us _killed_!” she shouts over him. Fear is creeping in around the edges again at his expression, but she grips tight to her fury—for what he’s done _and_ for this, that _fear_ is even entering the equation when the man she loves is involved. “All of the times we’ve run into Centipede, all the danger we’ve been in—Skye was _shot_!”

“John is _dying_ , we needed to move things along—”

“You stood back and let us walk into a trap!” She barely made the connection before, but now that she has, now that she’s spoken it, she knows the truth of it. Her heart, beleaguered as it’s been this day, suffers a sudden, painful crack. “What if it had been me? If I hadn’t been caught in that grenade on the train, would you have allowed the farce to continue? Would you have let Quinn shoot _me_?”

“No,” Grant says at once. “Fuck, of course I wouldn’t—how could you even think that?”

“How can you expect me to _not_?” she challenges. “You’ve betrayed us all, killed our allies, and now _kidnapped_ Skye and me! You let Coulson get tortured, you’ve let Mike be effectively _enslaved_ , you—”

“Enough!”

Jemma’s heart quails at the tone—the sharpest he’s ever taken with her—but it’s the way he grabs her that has the rest of her quailing. His grip is only just shy of painful, and it feels very much like a threat.

“Wait—what are you doing?” Skye demands as Jemma is dragged towards the stairs. She tries to plant her feet, but Grant doesn’t even appear to notice her attempt at resistance.

“My wife needs a lesson in respect,” he says shortly, and all the anger in the world can’t keep _that_ from petrifying Jemma. “I’ll deal with you later.”

She gives up struggling as he pulls her up the stairs; she has no hope of physically overpowering him, and on the staircase, she’ll like as not only hurt herself trying. Reasoning with him—assuming such a thing is even possible—would be a better bet, if only she could find her voice.

Skye is shouting, she thinks, but she can’t make it out—can’t stop hearing _my wife needs a lesson in respect_ , again and again, echoing in her ears and heart both. Only hours ago, she would have taken it as a joke, but it’s easy to believe now that he’s deadly serious.

Certainly the hard line of his jaw suggests so.

His hold on her arm isn’t painful, but _this_ is. She never would have imagined—three years they’ve been married, and it’s never crossed her mind to think he might hurt her. The mere _suggestion_ would have been laughable this morning.

She’s terrified of him. She wouldn’t have thought that _possible_.

At the top of the stairs, it’s a few short steps across the catwalk, into the hallway, and Grant slams the bulkhead door behind them, cutting off the sound of Skye’s voice.

Then he drops Jemma’s arm.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he asks, concern replacing fury in the blink of an eye. “I’m sorry, I needed it to look—”

“What?” The sudden change is enough to make her dizzy, and she falls back against the door as he reaches for her. “You—what?”

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he promises, taking a careful step back as she cringes away. “Jemma, I could _never_. I’m sorry I had to scare you.”

She stares at him, at a complete loss for words.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, eyes sad and wounded. “It was the only way I could think to get Skye to cooperate. A few empty threats against you will go a long way if she thinks I’ve hurt you already.”

“You—” Jemma swallows. “That was…?”

“An act,” he confirms as she flounders. “And since you can’t lie, I had to actually scare you for it to be convincing.”

“I—”

“You’re my _wife_ ,” he says, “and I love you. I promise I’m not gonna hurt you.”

All of the fury he scared out of her downstairs comes rushing back—and then some. It bubbles up in her, boiling hot enough to scald her heart. She’s never been this angry in her life.

He _used_ her. He frightened— _terrified_ —her, on _purpose_ , in order to use her like a weapon against one of her dearest friends. In order to further HYDRA’s cause. After betraying their team, killing Koenig, and effectively kidnapping her and Skye, he made her think that he was going to harm her so he could get what he wanted.

And now he dares to look at her like _that_? To give her this injured look, as though _he’s_ the one suffering for the countless terrible things he’s done in the last day alone?

Grant might claim that he could never hurt her—although how he has the nerve, she doesn’t know; as if every move he’s made since Skye said those awful words in the diner hasn’t _killed_ her—but with a sudden and blinding ferocity, _she_ wants to hurt _him_.

She doesn’t want to get any closer to him, though…and in any case, she suspects she’d feel badly later if she actually hit him. So she does the only thing she can think of, the one thing she _knows_ (possibly, if she knows anything at all anymore) will cause him even a fraction of the pain he’s caused her today:

She pulls her wedding ring off and throws it in his face.

It stuns him, that’s clear enough. The ring hits his cheek and bounces off, and he’s too slow in moving to catch it, leaving it to fall to the ground between them. It doesn’t make a sound when it lands, not on the carpet, but Jemma can imagine she hears one anyway—the slamming of a door, closing on their marriage.

“Jemma,” Grant says weakly. “What…”

“I am _not_ your wife,” she says, voice no stronger than his. “Everything you’ve done—the man I married could _never_.”

“Baby…”

“I don’t love you,” she says, and closes her eyes on his heartbroken face. “I don’t know you at all.”


End file.
